


Try a Little Tenderness

by librata



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, BAMF Charles Xavier, BDSM, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Dom Charles Xavier/Sub Erik Lehnsherr, Dom/sub, Erik Lehnsherr Defense Squad, Erik Lehnsherr Has Feelings, Erik Lehnsherr Has a Crush, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Sex Worker Erik Lehnsherr, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Top Charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29454726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata
Summary: Erik Lehnsherr makes a foray into the life he thought he had left behind him long ago and accepts a job as a hired submissive for a wealthy man looking for something he can't seem to get on his own. Charles, it turns out, isn't awful, but if his past offers any sort of  indicator for what's to come, Erik can't be entirely sure.Or, an AU in which submissive!Erik and dominant!Charles learn how to grow together.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 30
Kudos: 59





	1. The Man Beside the Window

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** There will be mentions of past dub/non con in this fic. I will never depict any of it here, but if the reference to a past event is triggering to you, please reconsider your choice to read this work.
> 
> Also, I am not someone who participates in a BDSM relationship, and while I have done research, please feel free to drop me a note in the comments if there's something that doesn't feel right. My intention here is to depict this relationship in a positive light, so please let me know here or on [Tumblr](https://librata-laments.tumblr.com/) if you have questions or comments about something that I write. I welcome all **constructive** feedback.
> 
> And one last thing, a **massive** debt of gratitude is owed to [Midrashic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midrashic/pseuds/midrashic), who always helps me get my ideas off the ground. She is the best brainstorming partner, cheerleader, and constructive critic anyone could ever want. <3

He’s chosen a neutral outfit for today’s meeting--an olive-colored sweater, dark jeans, and tan ankle boots. He can never be sure of his potential clients’ preferences before he meets them, so Erik always takes care to dress in a most unmemorable way.

It’s a rainy September afternoon, and Erik briefly confirms that he has, indeed, arrived at the correct cafe before he slips through the frosted glass door. Inside, it isn’t overly crowded and an eclectic grouping of tables, sofas, and chairs furnishes the cozy space. There is a humble casualness to the atmosphere, with unremarkable patrons huddling around tables or lounging across overstuffed sofas, colorful mugs in hand.

 _“You’ll know who he is,”_ Emma had said to Erik on the phone this morning. _“He’s got brown hair, blue eyes, and dresses like a grandpa. Oh, yeah, he’s in a wheelchair, too.”_

Erik’s metalsense finds the man before his eyes do, and when he turns his head toward the pull of complex metalwork, an immediate wash of trepidation drowns his thoughts.

She was accurate, Emma, with her description of the man. His chestnut hair falls past his ears in loose waves, and even from a distance, Erik can see that his eyes are a bright blue. An oversized tweed blazer swaths his upper body, which hunches slightly over a book. He’s seated in a handsome manual wheelchair at a small table beside a window, steam from a blue mug clouding the rainstreaked glass.

As he takes the man in, Erik swallows thickly and steels himself for what’s to come next. His shoulders sink, just a touch, and as he shoves his hands in his pockets, those blue eyes raise from their book to meet his own.

Immediately, Erik drops his head, fixing his gaze on his shoes. It’s remarkable, he thinks, how naturally this all comes to him, but how it can also feel so sickening at the same time.

“You must be Erik,” a warm baritone with an English accent says, and Erik does everything in his power to hide the subtle flinch his body gives. “I’m Charles. Come, take a seat.”

Before he can pause for long enough to consider turning on his heel and bolting for the door, Erik shuffles to the armless chair across the table from Charles and slides into it. His hands fold on his lap while his gaze slowly lifts to meet Charles’s own, which is...amiable. Friendly.

“Thank you for meeting me today, Erik,” says Charles with a smile, and extends a hand across the table. Erik hesitates to take it; these first meetings are always the most difficult to navigate, when he isn’t sure what is and isn’t a test. He gambles and decides to reach out to grab it, and is relieved when only a firm grip and shake reciprocate.

An awkward silence hangs between them then, and Erik realizes that Charles is expecting him to reply. He drops his eyes to the table and folds his hands back in his lap before clearing his throat. “Well, here I am,” he says tersely, and then silently berates himself for the edge in his tone. He’s never been good at this part. “What would you like to know about me?” he adds, softer now.

Erik peeks up just in time to see Charles cock a brow, which completely contorts his face from a mask of serenity to something far more animated and expressional, but he quickly schools it back toward its calm base. “How about something to drink, first?” Charles asks, gesturing toward the busy counter. “What would you like?”

Instinctively, Erik glances at the mug beside Charles’s still open book, noting the string and small tab of grey paper attached to the end. “I would love some earl grey tea, please.”

Charles doesn’t say anything then, scanning Erik’s face for a moment. Then, he raises his chin a centimeter. “Is that really what you want, Erik?” he asks, and Erik’s eyes drop once more, shame trickling through his cheeks in his caught lie.

He says nothing.

“If you really, truly prefer earl grey tea, I’d be happy to order you some,” says the man to break the silence, and Erik swallows against the lump in his throat.

“I...prefer coffee, to tea,” Erik admits with a small flush, glaring at the fingers knotted in his lap.

Charles nods. “I would like you to always be truthful with me,” he says in the same calm tone, but there’s an authority there that bends at Erik’s resolve. “Even if you think I won’t be pleased with your answer.”

Erik nods once. “Alright,” he murmurs, and then adds, “Sorry.”

“That’s quite alright,” Charles promises, and Erik can feel as the chair backs away from the table a few feet. “Cream and sugar?”

“Just a splash of milk, please.”

“Two percent?”

“Please.”

Erik lifts his eyes to watch as Charles turns his chair with a smoothness hinting at years of practice. He glides toward the counter in a few solid pumps of his wheels, rolling to a gentle stop before leaning forward to, presumably, place Erik’s coffee order.

 _“In a wheelchair?”_ Erik had asked Emma with more incredulity than he’d ever admit to feeling. _“How does that...work?”_

Emma’s unamused scoff had made Erik feel a bit stupid. _“His dick gets hard and goes inside you. I thought you knew how this worked, sugar.”_

Erik’s never worked for a client with a physical disability like this before, but he’s pretty sure that he can make whatever accommodations he needs to. He also assumes that Charles knows what he’s doing, and will guide him. He’s always been good at following directions.

He has to be, right now. He has no other choice. The non-profit doesn’t even pay half of what Erik needs to bring home, and the only way to get the cash he needs is the last thing he wants to do.

He’d done it a lot in his early 20s, worked as a sub-for-hire. He’d been a displaced immigrant, hardly scraping enough coin together to pay for his shared studio and a single meal per day while he saved up to bring his mother to the United States. New York City was a harsh place to try and make headway in a new world, and as he reached a stage of desperation that would make Charles Darwin proud, he found himself venturing into New York City’s seedy underbelly to swallow up any additional income he could manage.

 _“You’re skinny, but strong,”_ the owner of the dirty club had said as he surveyed a shirtless, 21-year-old Erik. _“Tall, too. Good face.”_ The balding man had scratched his chin, and then clicked his tongue. _“How are you with pain?”_

Erik had blinked, but set his jaw. _“I can take it.”_

The following six years of his life saw Erik build a career as a professional submissive. He worked throughout New York City’s various BDSM communities, beginning as a sub-for-hire contracted by a club and eventually freelancing on his own. The money came quickly, and even after Erik had brought in enough to set his mother up with a place of her own in California, he had amassed so many regular clients and standing jobs that it had been near impossible to stop.

He’d enjoyed it for awhile, too. Working as a submissive came naturally to Erik, he’d found out, and when he found good, compatible clients, he relished submitting control to his partner, allowing them to lead Erik through whatever they were doing together. It was an escape from the stresses of his life, a way to relax, unleash, be taken care of.

He wasn’t always so lucky, though. Sometimes, clients merely wanted a body to fuck and play with, or a confidence boost to a fragile ego. He’d often drag himself home after jobs like this, bruised and sore, feeling less like a human and more like an animal. Eventually, it had all become too overwhelming to carry on, and he’d retired from sex work and found sought employment in something that aligned more with his longterm interests.

And he had found it in a small grassroots organization called Advocacy for Mutant Youth that works with at-risk mutant children and young adults, connecting them with community programs and providing them with mentorship. It’s work he loves, work he feels is important, and while it hardly pays enough to keep his run-down apartment, Erik can’t think of anything he’d rather be doing.

And then, he got the call.

 _“Hallo, Mama,”_ he’d answered, in the middle of a packed New York subway.

Rather than its typically cheery lilt, Edie Lehnsherr’s voice was small. Solemn. _“Oh….Spatz.”_

The remainder of the day had passed in a nightmarish fog. Cancer. Stage three. Surgery. Medications. Treatments. Insurance won’t cover it. _“It’s alright, Spatz, I’ll do my best to fight--”_

_“Nein. We’ll find a way to pay for it, Mama.”_

_“Erik, it’s far too expensive--”_

_“Mama. We’ll pay for it.”_

“Our mutual friend Emma Frost tells me that you’re a mutant as well, Erik,” says Charles as he retakes his place at the table. “That you’ve got a remarkable gift with metal manipulation.”

Erik nods, and waits for the coffee shop employee to finish placing his coffee with a splash of two percent milk in front of him before speaking. “She didn’t tell me what sort of gift you have,” he says quietly.

Charles smiles and takes a long sip of his tea. “I’m a telepath as well.”

Erik’s certain that Charles can detect his stiffness and apprehension at the revelation, and he immediately wracks his brain in search of that creepy, cold feeling he gets whenever Emma is in his head. _Are you listening?_

“I wasn’t until you yelled loudly enough for me to do so,” says Charles placidly. “I promise you, I don’t eavesdrop. I only enter another’s head when invited.”

Erik isn’t positive that he believes Charles, but to avoid the risk of being overheard in his cynicism, he quickly assumes another subject.

“What...what is it that you’re looking for?”

Charles’s smile falters, and his confident posture flattens, just a bit. Erik can see the shift; Charles doesn’t enjoy discussing the business aspects of their exchange. Few people do.

“I’m looking for someone to stay with me at my home on a near full-time basis,” says the man with little expression. “Every night except for one of your choosing, with a full day off after that. We can arrange for other mornings off, as needed.”

At his home? Every night? He’s had nightly arrangements like this before, but never something so extensive.

His own shabby apartment isn’t something that he’ll miss too much, and with those sort of hours, he shouldn’t have to be in the arrangement for too long before he had enough money.

So, he nods. “Alright. I can do that.”

Charles raises a brow skeptically, as if he doesn’t quite believe that Erik could reach a conclusion so quickly, but he nods. “We can work out our specifics later. Although, I would like to know immediately if you have any strict limitations.”

Erik takes a short breath. “Not interested in blood or other...fluids. I prefer not to indulge in rape or non-consensual fantasies, too.”

“That’s no problem,” Charles replies firmly, hypnotizing Erik’s gaze once more. “And if you’re ever uncomfortable with something I suggest, tell me.”

“Alright.”

“Excellent,” the man says. “I’m offering $2,000 per week, and we can negotiate a different figure later on if we need to change our terms.”

Erik balks. Two _thousand_ dollars each week? Even in New York City, that figure is well above market price. There’s no way that Charles, even if he is as wealthy as Emma says he is, wants to cough up a down payment on a luxury car each month in exchange for a submissive.

“That’s nearly double my rate,” says Erik, because he can’t even fathom having so much money at one time. “What’s the catch?”

Charles’s face curls up, twisting into something close to a sneer. “Call it insurance. In case my wheels break your toes on accident.”

Erik presses his lips together into a tight line; a small challenge. It’s probably not a great idea to get moody with a man for whom he’s hoping to work as a submissive, but toxicity in Charles’s voice puts Erik off. The sex won’t be traditional, probably, but that doesn’t mean it has to cost more.

“I’ve got strong bones,” he counters. “And I’ll just invoice you my medical bill if I break my toes.”

To his immense surprise, Charles’s sneer melts into a satisfied smirk, and he even chuckles, before taking another drag of tea. “Is $2,000 per week suitable?”

Erik balls his hands in his lap. “Yes.”

“Alright, then,” says Charles, and shuts his book with a gentle huff. “Would you be willing to come over for a few days beginning next week? We can begin with a probationary period, and if we find that we’re both happy with the arrangement, we can draft a proper contract.”

He wants to say no. He enjoys his job at the non-profit, his quiet life in the city. The idea of living at the behest of another person, no matter how friendly, is unappealing at best and nauseating at worst.

For that price, however….there’s merely no way he can sanely decline.

“Yes.”

“Brilliant,” the man says. “I’ll send you my address. Do you need a car to collect you and bring you to me?”

“What part of town do you live in?”

“I don’t,” Charles replies coolly. “I live in Westchester.”

Westchester. A grand suburb forty-five minutes outside of the city. “I can find my way there.”

“I’ll send a car to collect you,” Charles says, pulling back from the table once more. “10:00 A.M. on Monday morning, if that’s alright with you.”

Erik wants to argue, and realizes that he’s no longer in a position to. So, he nods. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Charles asks, expression expectant.

Erik tilts his head downward until his eyes rest on the book now perched on Charles’s lap. “Yes, Sir.”

Charles smiles. “Good. I’ll see you on Monday, Erik. Enjoy the rest of your coffee.”

And with that, Erik is alone, the ever-widening pit in his gut choking his breath.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

“You’re _leaving_?”

Erik is surprised that Alex is so outwardly upset by the news. Alex Summers, Advocacy for Mutant Youth’s newest charge, has hardly shown interest in anything at all since his introduction several months ago.

The fifteen-year-old and his younger brother have been in foster care for most of their lives and the scars of that experience are clear in Alex’s anger and general distrust for everyone and everything. Although Erik rarely directly interacts with the youth in the programs, Alex has quietly become a special project, of sorts. He’s been let down by agency after agency, system after system, and Erik wants the young man to know that there _are_ people out there who care for him, and for their kind.

So when he expresses this level of displeasure when Erik lets him know that he’ll be taking a leave of absence from his position, he counts it as a bittersweet victory.

“Just for a little while,” Erik says to the boy on the other side of his desk. “Six months at most.”

Alex glares at the floor and sets his jaw. “So you can go live with your _boyfriend?_ ”

Erik taps a finger on his desktop and nods, a sick swell flooding his body that always accompanies a direct lie. It’s not as if he can tell a child—or anyone, really—that he has to quit his day job to help some landed gentry asshole live his BDSM fantasy, so he’s fabricated a scenario that he hopes is believable.

“He lives too far out of the city to commute each day, and this is the first sabbatical he’s had in several years,” Erik explains, and he knows that Alex couldn’t care any less for his reasons why he’s leaving, but he has to try.

Alex continues to frown at the floor, his eyes little more than narrow slits, and Erik finds himself second-guessing it all. He’s doing real, important work here at AMY. Helping real, important people. The pay is terrible, but…

But nothing, Erik knows. This is what it’s all about. He can’t afford the treatment his mother needs on this salary. There’s a glibly thrown belief that money complicates things, but in Erik’s view, it does the opposite. You either have it or you don’t. You either need it or you don’t. And right now, Erik did not have it but desperately needed it. There can’t be any second-guessing.

Alex’s face, though, was truly gnawing at him.

With a huff, Erik snatches a post-it note and pencil from his desk. “I’m going to give you an address,” he grunts as he scribbles the address that he’s already memorized on the note. “Call and text me if you’re ever in trouble, but you can find me at this address if you need it.”

He shoves the note toward Alex, who takes it with a skeptic look. Erik eyes him firmly, because he knows that it’s massively inappropriate to be giving Alex the home address of his new employer, but the world is a dangerous place. Especially for people like Alex.

“Put that somewhere safe,” he orders. “And only use it if you’re in the most dire situation you have ever experienced in your entire life. Do you understand me?”

Alex looks at the note, and then stuffs it in his jacket pocket. “Boyfriend doesn’t like strays?”

“He appreciates privacy.”

Alex rolls his eyes, but Erik can see in the teenager’s posture that at least _some_ tension had left his body. “I won’t bug you.”

“Call or text me first,” Erik says again, waiting until Alex gives another affirmative nod. “Good. It’ll only be for a few months, Alex. I’ll be back in no time.”


	2. This Inexplicable Gratification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik arrives in Westchester.

_9:58 A.M._  
 **New Text Message:**  
Hi, this is Peter, your Uber Black driver. I’m outside of your building in a Black Audi A4.

Erik blinks at the scratched screen of his phone. He hadn’t been sure how exactly Xavier had been planning on getting him to Westchester, but he also knows better than to ask questions so early on. From the brief conversation they’d shared, Xavier doesn’t seem like the type of man who isn’t always buttoned up, or at least accommodating. 

He pays a glance to his apartment--small and dingy but impeccably clean--and wonders idly what state he’ll be in when he finally returns in those several days.

It’s unsafe, he knows. Sex work can be dangerous, and even though Erik’s more equipped than most to defend himself in situations of physical danger, there is always the initial wrench of fear when meeting a new client. He’s had his share of tenuous situations, of course. Xavier seems friendly enough, but someone who can afford to spend $8,000 each month like this can’t be too safe. Especially one who sends Audis into the middle of Brooklyn to whisk that expense off to Westchester.

With a grounding breath, Erik snatches his duffel bag, keys, and cell phone before slipping from his apartment, down the flickering stairwell, and into the waiting car.

There’s traffic leaving the city, but once the chatty driver pulls onto Sprain Brook Parkway, it’s an easy drive. All too soon, the endless alleyways and panorama of building facades melt into a green tree-lined highway, and once they zip down the Sleepy Hollow exit, Erik feels the lump in his throat rise. These houses are absolutely massive--sprawling estates with courtyards and circular driveways and manned gates, but the house at which their car slows has to be the largest one of all.

It looks more like a castle than a house--nearly like those ancient manors built into hillsides his mother used to take him to as a little boy. He’s suddenly massively uncomfortable, as there is absolutely no way that this man lives in this palatial building all on his own. Will he have to work in the company of other people? Charles never mentioned it, but he didn’t explicitly say otherwise. It isn’t too late to turn around, of course, but when Erik performs a cursory scan of the property for signs of moving belt buckles, trouser buttons, jacket zippers, he finds...nothing other than one set, and they’re situated very near the metal skeleton of a wheelchair. 

Huh. Odd.

He feels rather bereft when the driver leaves, standing in front of an enormous entryway with a light duffel bag on his shoulder. He only brought a few things with him, like a few changes of clothing and a toothbrush, because he really doesn’t know what’s expected of him on the other side of the grand oak doors.

Hidden behind a low wall to the right of the door is a shallow ramp, but Erik takes the stone stairs up to the door, and, feeling entirely idiotic, uses his abilities to rap the iron doorknocker against the wood.

Erik can feel the wheelchair moving closer, and after just another moment, the door opens inward to reveal the man from the cafe once more. He wears a black blazer with grey elbow patches, a blue cashmere sweater, and crease-free trousers that stop at the ankle just high enough to reveal a pair of red and blue striped socks. It’s a small relief, as Erik had decided on a pair of grey trousers and a black sweater himself, and he doesn’t feel inappropriately dressed. A pleasant, welcoming smile stretches across his face, and even in the cavernous entry, he seems, to Erik, to be far more imposing than his stature permits.

“Good morning, Erik,” he says in a voice that’s still lower than Erik expects. “Please, come in. And shut the door behind you, if you will.”

Obediently, Erik crosses the threshold of the building, but as he turns to push the door closed, Charles raises a hand. 

Erik freezes, chest tightening.

“You manipulate metal, correct?” Charles asks, and when Erik nods, he continues. “You may use your abilities here, if you find it easier and pleasant to do so. I will actually request that you do.”

Erik remains frozen for a split second, but, with a twitch of his fingers, sends the door shut with a small click. Charles’s smile widens, keen eyes resting on Erik’s face. 

“Absolutely brilliant,” he commends. “Follow me, if you will. I’d like to have breakfast, and then we can chat. Are you hungry, Erik?”

Before he can stop himself, Erik glances at his watch. It’s nearly 11am on a Monday morning, and the man hasn’t even eaten breakfast yet? He must be one of those old money folks, bleeding with wealth, then. Free to not work while living alone in a monstrous home. 

Erik tries not to be resentful.

“Erik?”

“No...Sir. I’m not hungry.” He follows Charles through the entryway and into a hallway, exercising all of the control he had in his body in order to not stare at the opulence around him. The house has that sort of Victorian heaviness to it, with gilded photographs and original art pieces and too much vintage furniture. Luxury without purpose, it feels like. Perfectly curated to drip with affluence.

“Have you eaten this morning?” 

Erik blinks. He’s taken to skipping breakfast most days, to shave his grocery bill as much as he could. A lie immediately springs to his tongue, but the memory from the other day, of Charles ordering him to be truthful, overpowers the urge.

“No,” he admits as they enter a cavernous kitchen, finished with expensive appliances and shiny countertops. He notices almost immediately that they’re all too high for Charles to comfortably use while seated in his chair. Maybe there’s another kitchen in this place? He won’t be surprised if there is.

“I’d like you to join me for breakfast, then,” Charles says simply before rolling to a stop at a rectangular table in the corner. At the previously empty space sits a plate, piled with toast, jam, and an orange. Closer to the center of the table, there’s a steaming teapot beside a nearly-full coffee pot and carton of two percent milk.

Erik blinks again. Is the coffee….for him? Charles remembers that he prefers coffee with a splash of milk to tea? “Oh, I’m okay--”

“I’d like you to join me for breakfast,” Charles repeats as he turns his head to scan Erik once more with those alarming eyes. “Nothing happens until you’re fed appropriately.”

Erik still hesitates. He’s still fully clothed, with his bag over his shoulder, and it doesn’t feel right. “Should I...change? Or anything?”

“Not now. Come.”

Erik has been doing this long enough to know when a suggestion becomes a command, and it’s far, far too natural for him to set his things down beside the door, cross the space to the table, and sink to his knees beside Charles and his chair. It seems to have been the correct move, because Charles smiles contentedly and turns back toward the table to fix a mug of tea, and then a mug of coffee, with just a splash of milk.

“Thank you,” he murmurs when Charles hands him the mug, swallowing half of the steaming contents in one gulp. 

“I tend to eat breakfast and dinner with a small lunch somewhere during the day. I’d like it if you joined me for meals. Is that agreeable?”

Three meals per day? Erik hasn’t eaten so much since he was a little boy in Germany, but he supposes his own eating patterns aren’t representative of the pinnacle of health. “It is,” he answers.

“Have you any dietary restrictions? Allergies?” 

Erik hesitates. In his experience, his clients aren’t keen with high-maintenance subs. Why would someone pay so much money for someone’s services only to have to cater to eccentricities.

_”I would like you to always be truthful with me. Even if you think I won’t be pleased with your answer.”_

“I’m allergic to shellfish,” Erik admits, color touching his cheeks.

Charles nods, and plucks a piece of toast from the plate. Rather than taking a bite himself, he holds the slice to Erik’s lips. It’s years of practice—or, instinct—that send Erik leaning forward to take a bite, straight from Charles’s hand. 

The man smiles, satisfied, as Erik chews. “Good. Anything else?”

His eyes fall a bit. “I’m also Jewish, but not the strictest of sorts.”

The feeling of being surveyed. “Would you prefer to eat kosher?”

“It’s nothing to worry about--”

“Erik.” The timbre in Charles’s voice is firm, and has Erik glancing up once more. His expression is serious as he holds the toast. “Your preferences are important to me. If you would prefer to keep to a kosher diet, do tell me. It will be done.”

He can’t help but wonder why this man, who he barely knows and who barely knows him, has taken such a rapid interest in his well being. Enforcing meals, catering to his dietary preferences...is this part of Charles’s kink? It seems strange to ask for a special diet, but he also wants the grilling to stop, so he nods, eyes on the spokes of Charles’s wheel.

“My mother would certainly appreciate it,” he concedes, and to his slight surprise, Charles laughs. It’s a warm laugh, and when Erik lifts his eyes, he can see that the man is smiling in what looks like a genuine way. 

“I didn’t ask you if your mother would like to keep a kosher diet, but I’ve a feeling that this is the best answer that I’ll get out of you at the moment,” says Charles, and before Erik can flush with shame, he’s offered another bite of toast, which he takes. “I’m afraid that I’m not the best of chefs, but I’ll do my best to make sure neither of us starve.”

Erik merely nods and remains where he is, accepting the toast when it’s offered. Charles doesn’t speak again for a while, instead turning his attention to the newspaper beside his plate. After about ten minutes, the plate is empty, and Charles glances at his empty hand for a moment before lowering it once more toward Erik. On Charles’s index and middle fingers are small globs of jam.

Erik glances momentarily between Charles’s fingers and those keen blue eyes, and then leans slightly forward to wrap his lips around the digits. He meets Charles’s gaze as he sucks, seeing how his eyes brighten and his expression becomes satisfied. Something inside Erik rejoices—he’d done something else right.

“If you’re done with your coffee, I’ll take your mug,” Charles says once he’s pulled his hand away. He quickly piles his plate and the two empty cups onto his lap and wheels to the sink, where he reaches upward to deposit them in the basin. Rather than washing the dishes, Charles backs himself away and turns to face Erik. “I’ll show you around the house, and then I’ve got a bit of work to do. Please, if you’ll join me while I do so?”

Erik nods, and when Charles gestures for him to stand, he does.

“Good boy,” Charles praises, and the familiar trickle of pride rocks his body. His nerve endings momentarily short circuit and his vision fuzzes at the corners, overtaken by this inexplicable gratification that has haunted him his whole adult life. 

It’s evident that Charles senses this, as he grins in something that looks like amusement before turning his chair around. “Follow me, Erik.”

The tour of the mansion takes a while, as it’s somehow, even larger than it looks from the outside. Most everything above the second storey are guest rooms, storage, and closed-off parlors from days gone by, so Erik expects that they’ll be spending most of their time on the first two levels. The sleek elevator opens back up to the second floor landing once Charles has shown off the small observatory beside the attic, and Erik follows him back to the room he had said is his study.

Unsurprisingly, it’s a large, handsome room, with tall windows and bookshelves lining two entire walls. There’s a wooden desk situated in front of the windows, topped with books, files, loose papers, and a silver MacBook. “As I’ve said, I’ve got a bit of work to do,” Charles says as he parks himself behind the desk, nodding to his side. “Do tell me if you need something.”

Erik kneels once more, and then says nothing.

It’s strange to be here, still fully dressed. Charles hasn’t even seemed interested in getting his clothes off. In fact, Charles hasn’t seemed interested in much else other than stuffing Erik with food and drink. At the café, and now here, Charles hasn’t indicated wanting anything from him other than direct answers and to have the jam licked off of his fingers. 

The nerves haven’t subsided but they do steady a bit as Erik settles into the kneel. Every few minutes, Charles shuffles a few pages before continuing to clack at his computer. His knees and toes ache as the minutes become hours, but it’s a sensation that feels more familiar than anything else, so he spends the silence doing what he can to further delve into that space in his head that allows him to do what he does.

He lets himself feel the pain against his kneecaps as they dig into the wood floor. The muscles grow stiffer and stiffer, and Erik imagines the creakiness he’ll feel when he’s finally permitted to stand. His eyes travel upward to observe Charles as he works, watching the confident set of his jaw, the inquisitive squint of his eyes, the effortless sweep of his hair. His hands look strong as they type and flip through pages. Deft fingers, sure and supple. There’s a handsome platinum ring on his thumb, and Erik silently reaches out to feel it with his metalsense. It’s well made.

He thinks of the way Charles praised him when he stood on command.

Charles’s lips quirk up just a bit.

As if magnetized, Erik leans just a little bit until his chin rests on Charles’s knee. He doesn’t look up, but he soon feels those fingers push through his hair, which sends his blood pulsing to his extremities.

It feels nice. 

He remains supported against Charles’s knee for a long, long while. Every now and again, that hand weaves its way through his hair, tugging ever so gently but enough to send Erik further into the space he so desperately needs to be in. 

“Goodness, I hadn’t even noticed the time,” Charles says finally, snapping Erik out of the gentle doze that has overtaken his body. His eyes shoot open, and sure enough, the light has shifted considerably. It was nearly evening—he had been kneeling for several hours, and his legs were numb. 

Charles’s hand moved back to his hair, but then traveled further to reach his jaw. Ever so softly, Charles tilted his face upward so that Erik was looking directly into his eyes. They’re both curious and impressed, and Erik can’t pull his gaze away even if he tries. 

Charles smiled. 

“I’ll fix us something to eat, and we’ll enjoy it on the sofa. Let’s give those legs of yours a little rest.” Charles gives one last light tug of his hair before tapping on Erik’s shoulder.

Obediently, Erik straightens up, and then stands to his feet when Charles nodded. As expected, his legs ache when they straightened, and Erik privately revels in the pain, like a token of a job well done. 

“Come,” Charles insists, and Erik follows the man out of the office on stiff legs, flexing his toes along the way. They’re soon down the elevator and outside the kitchen once more, but before they can enter, Charles stops his chair and looks over his shoulder at Erik. “Please, Erik, go make yourself comfortable in the sitting room. I’ll be out with dinner shortly. Do you remember where it is?”

“Yes, Sir,” Erik answers, and his voice is hoarse from hours of disuse.

“Lovely. I will see you shortly.”

Charles turns forward once more and wheels himself into the kitchen, and, considering himself dismissed, Erik reverses his own course to make his way toward the sitting room. It’s evidently a different room than the living room, lounge, entertainment room, and “formal” living room that Charles had shown him earlier, but Erik has a decent spatial memory and finds his way to the directed space.

The sitting room boasts a style a bit more modern than many of the others, with an L-shaped sofa situated before a massive flatscreen television. There are a handful of armchairs and a low coffee table as well, but the rest of the space is open, clean, and spartan when compared to the opulence of the rest of the house. 

Charles had told him to make himself comfortable, here. He hasn’t been with Charles long enough to know what he means by that, and at this phase, Erik wishes that Charles would give more direct orders. So far, he seems...lax, or at least gentle in his preferences, but that doesn’t mean he’ll tolerate disobedience, even accidental disobedience. There’s always a bit of learning and adjustment at the beginning of any arrangement, and Erik can only hope that Charles doesn’t expect any less. 

Normally, he would kneel at the sofa and await further instructions, but Charles had mentioned that he thought that Erik needed a break from kneeling, and Erik’s legs _do_ hurt.

So instead, Erik quickly steps out of his clothes until he’s fully naked and folds the garments in a neat pile in the corner of the room. He then sits on the ground beside the sofa with his legs folded to one side, and waits.

The wheelchair approaches after twenty or so minutes, and Charles appears in the doorway soon after. When Erik steals a glance, he can see that Charles is surveying his naked body where he sits, and that familiar swath of vulnerability overtakes his senses once more. 

“As I’ve said, I’m not a magnificent cook, but I do my best to make do,” says Charles as he pushes himself into the room with a tray balanced on his legs. “I’ve made us some pasta, although I realize I should have asked if you like it before preparing it.”

Before he can stop himself, Erik raises a brow. “Do you really need to ask, Sir? Can’t you find that out of your own accord?”

Charles beams, clearly amused. “Certainly, but most people find that level of prying to be rather impolite. And I’ve told you, I only enter another’s head when invited.”

He places the tray on the coffee table when he reaches the sofa, and then positions himself beside it. Before Erik can even form the assumption that he intends to remain in his wheelchair, Charles uses his arms and upper body to maneuver himself from chair to sofa. 

Erik attempts to avert his eyes, as he suddenly feels as if he’s intruding upon a private moment, but he can’t help but watch. The transfer isn’t extraordinarily smooth, but it’s not overly strained—it’s clear that Charles has done this many, many times. Once his body is situated on the cushions, Charles uses both arms to pull his legs, and situates them so that each foot is straight and touching the ground.

Emma never specified exactly _why_ Charles required the use of a wheelchair and Erik hadn’t asked, but it was now clear that his lower half was either partially or completely paralyzed. Erik has to wonder if he had been born this way or if something had occurred to cause it later in life, but he knows it’s not something he can ask. Not now, anyway.

“Sit beside me, please,” says Charles, pulling Erik from his speculations. “Up here.”

Erik obeys and slinks upward and onto the sofa, settling in beside Charles. He’s less than a foot away from the man now.

Charles nods approvingly and leans forward to pull the tray onto his lap. There’s only one plate of pasta, but it’s rather large and overfull, leading Erik to assume that they will share it as they had shared breakfast. 

“You’re nervous,” Charles says as he spools a forkful of pasta, and when Erik’s cheeks tinge, he smiles gently. “That’s alright, Erik. Though I sincerely hope that you will grow to be comfortable with me, I will never fault you for being nervous or apprehensive.”

Erik nods, although he isn’t sure what to say. Charles has just crossed the invisible line by openly acknowledging the tension between them, and he’s always been better at playing it off as nonexistent than addressing it.

“Will you tell me what’s making you nervous?”

Erik looks up to meet Charles’s eyes, and dread overtakes him. Is _this_ what Charles gets off to? Making Erik talk about the most uncomfortable things he can muster? Charles isn’t an idiot, nor inexperienced, and to top it off, he’s a bloody _telepath._

“Erik?”

Charles is holding the laden fork and looking at him expectedly. Erik has half a mind to stand up, pull on his clothing, and book it out of there, but something keeps him on that couch and staring into Charles’s eyes.

“It’s…” _You might take safewords lightly. You might like pain a little too much. You might be cruel, angry, and sadistic._ “A new arrangement always comes with a period of uncertainty,” Erik says instead. “I am merely practicing caution, for the time being.”

Charles smiles slightly, and then holds the fork to Erik’s lips. Erik accepts the bite. “Thank you for telling me,” Charles says as Erik chews. “You must understand that this is a new arrangement for me, as well. I’m also growing accustomed to it.”

Charles takes a bite of pasta as well while Erik considers that. The man hasn’t given off any sort of indication that he’s anything less than confident. 

“I suppose I haven’t directly told you so, but you’re more than welcome to ask me questions if you’re ever unsure,” says Charles once he’s swallowed. “And unless I specifically ask you to remain silent for any reason, I don’t expect you to speak only when spoken to. I always welcome conversation.”

This is actually rather helpful, Erik decides. He and Charles haven’t yet formalized a contract, so Erik isn’t entirely sure about what constitutes a rule and what doesn’t. Knowing that he’s allowed to speak unprompted and ask questions when he’s unsure does unsully the uncertainty, just a little. 

“Yes, Sir,” he agrees, and takes another bite of pasta. This time, he actually tastes it, and it’s...not terrible, but certainly not delicious. 

“I really do mean that,” Charles says, and those fingers are once more lifting Erik’s chin to direct him to meet his eyes. They’re serious, sincere. Erik can’t help but stay focused on them. “Communication is very important to me. If you’re ever uncomfortable, nervous, or unhappy, you will speak up. I will never be upset if you’re honest with me.”

Charles’s expression is so earnest that Erik can only nod, and through his cynicism, he finds that he believes that Charles at least believes himself. 

“Do you feel a little better?”

To his surprise, Erik does. A little better, anyway. 

“I do. Thank you, Sir,” he answers, and Charles smiles.

“I’m glad,” he says. “Now, I’d love it if you could tell me more about yourself.”

Gott, Erik has always hated questions like this, even outside of his work setting. It’s uncomfortable to be on the spot in this way, expected to tell a near total stranger about his life, his interests, his aspirations. He feels that he comes across as tremendously boring.

Before he can begin, however, Charles pushes his fingers through Erik’s hair and gathers more pasta onto the fork. “You’ve an accent that you attempt to mask. Polish?”

Question and answer, then. This is much better.

“German,” he corrects, and Charles smiles and feeds Erik another bite of dinner. 

“Born and raised?” Charles asks once Erik has finished chewing.

“Mm. Emigrated when I was 21.”

“Do you miss your home?”

Erik nods once. He does; he misses the ancient buildings, the snow capped villages, the cadence of his native tongue. He misses the narrow flat he grew up in, where he slept in the loft above the living room, with the tiny window in the ceiling. “Yes, I do. But, this is home, now.”

Charles nods as well and continues to card a hand through Erik’s hair. As if by instinct, Erik scoots himself closer to the man, and when Charles gives an approving glance, curls his legs up underneath him so that he can more easily rest his head on Charles’s shoulder. It’s thicker than Erik thought it would be, dwarfed by an oversized blazer. The hand in his hair moves to wrap itself around Erik’s bare waist, and he notices how cold Charles’s fingers are. 

But, it seems to have been a decent move, as Charles grunts softly and pulls Erik tighter into his side. 

Charles then offers up his own origin story, explaining how he was born in New York to an American father and a British mother, but had spent most of his formative years in the UK. He only returned to the United States after accepting a teaching position at Columbia University, where he lectured in genetics and biology. 

That certainly explained the day spent huddled at a desk around books, then. Erik had been so focused on readying himself for whatever was to come that he hadn’t even bothered to wonder exactly _what_ Charles had been doing all day at his desk.

Charles continues to ask Erik questions about his personal life and preferences, and then rewards an answer with a bite of pasta. Many are fairly trivial, such as his favorite color (red) and his favorite movie ( _The Great Escape_ ). Some are more difficult to answer. What would he do with his life if money wasn’t a factor? Where is the location he feels most at peace? At first, he feels uncomfortable explaining this to Charles—why does Charles care about his mutant rights aspirations or the fact that a Jewish bakery in Mittenwald is the place that brings him to serenity more than any other?

Throughout the shared meal, however, Erik discovers that the two of them have a surprising amount of commonalities. An eerie amount, in fact. They both prefer an evening spent inside with a book to a social gathering, although Charles prefers dreadful pastoral literature while Erik is a modernist buff. They both enjoy traveling and eating in nice restaurants. Charles says he enjoys chess. The more Charles shares about himself in response to Erik’s own disclosures, the berth between their lifestyles seems to shrink. Of course course, Charles’s own anecdotes about his travels and personal library collections and chess team experiences from his private school days drip with the allure of a reality that Erik can only dream of, but still. There are at least similarities that root their personalities. It makes things that much easier.

Charles stops asking questions once the plate is empty and set aside and flicks on the television in front of them. He scrolls through a few different options before settling on the National Geographic streaming application. As the colorful space documentary spills across the large screen, Charles grabs another remote to lower the lights until only the television illuminates the room.

“It’s a bit chilly in here, isn’t it?” Charles asks, and Erik is suddenly acutely aware of his own nakedness. In every arrangement he’s been in before, he’s been expected to be unclothed unless specifically directed otherwise. Charles hasn’t given any specific order for him to undress, but after being told to make himself comfortable, he assumed that Charles was looking for this.

“Erm, I’m alright,” he says to his knees. 

“I wish I had your warm blood,” Charles teases lightly. “I’m going to lie back. Would you mind moving over for a moment while I get settled?”

Erik quickly scoots to the far end of the sofa and watches as Charles snatches a blanket from the back of the couch, and then uses both of his arms to support himself as he repositions on the cushions. One by one, he pulls his legs onto the couch and straightens them out before him, easing his torso until his upper back and neck are resting against a pillow supported by the arm of the sofa. While somewhat labored, Charles’s movements are sure and practiced. Confident, like everything else he’s done so far.

The sofa is wide enough so that, when Charles looks to Erik with a welcoming smile, he can comfortably slot himself in front of Charles on the cushions. As soon as he’s settled, Charles throws the blanket over both of them and wraps his arms around Erik’s chest in a loose hold. Charles is still fully-clothed—shoes included—but his blazer is soft and flexible. Not uncomfortable against Erik’s naked skin. 

Throughout the film, Erik is on edge, waiting for the moment a hand brushes against his cock or nails dig their way into his skin. He still isn’t _exactly_ sure whether or not Charles can get an erection, so he waits for the familiar press of a hard on against his lower back. It’s been hours, after all, and Charles hasn’t done anything aside from feed him two meals, caress his hair, and cuddle him. 

But, it doesn’t happen. When the film ends, Charles quickly selects another—a rainforest documentary, this time—and wraps his arms around Erik once more. Every now and then, his hand runs gently along Erik’s chest and stomach but travels no farther south than his navel. The touch is soft, barely even there, and extraordinarily careful. Even when Erik adjusts himself to clandestinely feel for a hardening cock, he returns with no indication that Charles has plans to make a sexual advance.

When the credits of the second film roll, Charles stretches behind him and then moves as if he’s ready to get up. Erik springs up as well to allow Charles some room to move, and soon, Charles has transferred himself back into his wheelchair. It’s just before midnight.

“Ready for bed?” Charles asks.

Erik follows Charles to the elevator and during the ride up, he readies himself once more for what’s sure to come. It didn’t happen in the kitchen, the study, or on the sofa, but Charles is _sure_ to want to start a scene in the bedroom. Perhaps he prefers to keep the actual sex to this space, which is understandable. In fact, it will help Erik know when he should expect it and when he shouldn’t. Boundaries like this are nice and easy to follow, at any rate.

They both cross the threshold of the bedroom, and Erik is prepared for a direct order, and then...and then, Charles keeps moving his chair toward the bathroom suite on the far wall. 

“I’ll have to beg your pardon, Erik,” Charles says, stopping beside the open bathroom door. “It will take me a little while to get ready for bed, so you will have to excuse me,” he says with a polite, apologetic smile. “There is another bathroom two doors down on your left, which I invite you to use as your own while you’re here. There is a new toothbrush and toothpaste beside the sink, as well as toiletries in the cabinet and fresh towels on the rack. Please, feel free to shower if you would like, and do let me know if you would like additional supplies.”

Erik feels dumb as he stares at Charles. Are they having a _sleepover_ , here?

“Once you’ve finished, you may wait for me in bed. I will join you as soon as I have as well. Is that alright?”

Despite himself, Erik nods, and Charles bids him another smile before disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. The lock clicks.

Is Charles...not attracted to him?

Erik isn’t vain, but he knows that he isn’t ugly. In fact, he’s pretty certain that he’s been blessed with an agreeable face and a fit body that hasn’t ever posed an issue before. His past clients and partners have always told him how much they appreciate his physique, often showering him with compliments and praise to remind him that he is, in fact, good-looking.

He knows he doesn’t look like the quintessential submissive, but that’s worked in his favor thus far. He’s tall, has broad shoulders and a strong jaw, and is rather well-endowed, and every dom he’s been with has appreciated these traits. They tend to enjoy exercising control over someone larger than them, watching Erik’s strength tested, dirtying up his muscles with their own markings.

Perhaps Charles prefers a different type and is too polite to say otherwise. In that moment, Erik wishes that he could have Charles’s telepathy to see inside his mind.

But Erik is still not interested in shirking an order, even an implied one, so his legs carry him to the appointed bathroom. Like the entertainment room, it’s modern and sleek with white tile floors and a spacious sink and vanity area. A glass door opens to a large shower, with expensive shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and a razor lining the shelves. 

Even though he’s done little to warrant a shower today, Erik steps inside and washes himself, spending a bit more time than necessary under the fancy showerhead. He uses the provided supplies, which all smell vaguely of apple and sandalwood, brushes his teeth, and fully dries himself off before walking back to the bedroom.

Charles is still in the bathroom upon his return. He can hear the shower running, so he quietly shuts the bedroom door and perches on the edge of the bed to wait. Part of him hopes that Charles’s telepathy overhears Erik’s concerns, whether on accident or not, and feels compelled to address them openly. If he really isn’t attracted to Erik, maybe he’ll dismiss him and send him home with today’s pay. If he is, perhaps he’ll finally initiate a scene to quell the building fear. Erik will prefer either to this agonizing limbo.

Nearly 30 minutes pass before the bathroom door opens and Charles emerges. He’s wearing silk pajama pants and a soft-looking grey t-shirt. It’s somewhat tight around his torso, and Erik can see, for the first time, bands of muscle on his chest, shoulders, and biceps. Charles’s oversized wardrobe hides his stature, Erik realizes, and his eyes find themselves fixated on the man’s biceps as he swiftly moves himself from chair to bed.

Charles pulls back the thick duvet and gestures for Erik to slide underneath. Erik obeys and settles himself into the bed, which is remarkably comfortable. Beside him, Charles props himself up against a few pillows and snatches a novel from his bedside table. He flips it open to a bookmarked page, and without saying a word, begins to read.

The room is dim, as only Charles’s bedside lamp is on. Beneath Erik’s body, the mattress seems to hug his contours while the thick, soft sheets settle around him like a cocoon. Every few minutes, Charles turns a page in his book, but other than that, the room is fully silent. He can smell the body wash from his own shower, and then another complementing scent coming from Charles, too. 

Erik has been awake since before sunrise this morning, and in the dark room and warm bed he feels his eyelids begin to droop. There’s a fleeting moment in that area between consciousness and sleep where he realizes that he absolutely should not go under right now, but the pull from the other side overpowers the drive, and Erik is soon fast asleep, nestled in the thick embrace of Charles’s bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comint?!?


End file.
